And. Why, man?
Fra. Why, good faith, I scarce know myself; already me thinks I should remember to forget myself; now I am so shining brave. Indeed Francisco was always a sweet youth, for I am a perfumer; but thus brave! I am an alien to it. Would you make me like the drown’d Albano? Must I bear’t mainly up? Must I be he?
Ran. What else, man? O, what else? 10
Jaco. I warrant you, give him but fair rich clothes,
He can be ta’en, reputed anything.
Apparel’s grown a god, and goes[467] more neat;
Makes men of rags, which straight he bears aloft,
Like patch’d-up scarecrows to affright the rout
Of the idolatrous vulgar that worship images,
Stand awed and bare-scalp’d at the gloss of silks,
Which, like the glorious A-jax[468] of Lincoln’s-Inn
(Survey’d with wonder by me when I lay
Factor in London), laps up naught but filth 20
And excrements, that bear the shape of men,
Whose inside every daw[469] would peck and tear,
But that vain scarecrow clothes entreats forbear.
Fra. You would have me take upon me, Albano,
A valiant gallant Venetian burgomasco.
Well my beard, my feather, short sword, and my oath,
Shall do’t, fear not. What! I know a number,
By the sole warrant of a lappy beard,
A rain-beat plume, and a good chop-filling oath,
With an odd French shrug, and “by the Lord,” or so, 30
Ha’ leapt into sweet captain with such ease
As you would—Fear’t not. I’ll gage my heart I’ll do’t.
How sits my hat? Ha! Jack, doth my feather wag?
Jaco. Methinks now, in the common sense of fashion,
Thou shouldst grow proud, and like a fore-horse view,
None but beforehand gallants; as for sides,
Study a faint salute, give a strange eye;
And those that rank in equal file with thee,
But as to those in rearward, O be blind!
The world wants eyes—it[470] cannot see behind. 40
Fra. Where is the strumpet? Where’s the hot-vein’d French?
Lives not Albano? Hath Celia so forgot
Albano’s love, that she must forthwith wed
A runabout, a skipping Frenchman?
Jaco. Now you must grow in heat, and stut.